


end of an era

by xenosaurus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Courting Rituals, Flirting, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Sex, M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenosaurus/pseuds/xenosaurus
Summary: “I think your cooking is quite impressive-- I’ve never been much of a chef.”“Your sandwiches served their purpose perfectly,” Vilmar says, smiling. “I actually thought it was a courting gift at first.”G’raha nearly inhales his next bite of pudding.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 10
Kudos: 190





	end of an era

**Author's Note:**

> Some quick notes!  
> \--this takes place right after 5.0, it should be spoiler-free for patches following that  
> \--a big thank you goes to my beta, benny, for both their actual betaing and for listening to me ramble endlessly about miqo'te headcanons while we're trying to do roulettes  
> \--I've been going back and forth on writing a second chapter to this, but for now, here's some horny catboys, please enjoy!

It takes a few days after his rescue for the Exarch to realize that Vilmar is spending time with him for the sake of it.

At first, it blends into the background of everyone else’s concern. He’s just returned from being held hostage, after all, and injured on top of that. Lyna hovers, the healers make thrice-daily visits, and Vilmar eats lunch with him every day. It’s touching, but ultimately unnecessary, and eventually, the fretting falls off as his health recovers.

Vilmar, on the other hand, continues to favor him with his company. Lyna insists she hasn’t put him up to it, but it still takes an embarrassing amount of time for G’raha to realize that there _isn’t_ some external motivation involved. It isn’t until Vilmar misses a day, caught up in some project he’s been helping with at the Mean, that he figures it out.

The guard announces Vilmar’s arrival in the Ocular just after dusk, and in the moment, G’raha wonders what’s wrong, what problem is being brought to his attention. But then he notices the covered bowl Vilmar is carrying, the easy smile on his face.

“Hello, my friend. I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” There’s no accusation in G’raha’s voice, but Vilmar grins sheepishly nonetheless.

“I’m a bit late for lunch, huh? I know you already had dinner with Lyna, so I brought dessert.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” G’raha says, flustered.

“No, I know, I just wanted to. I missed you this afternoon.”

G’raha feels his ears twitch in time with the twist of nervous delight in his stomach, and winces minutely. He’s grown too used to the heavy fabric of his hood; monitoring his body language no longer comes naturally. Vilmar, a Miqo’te himself, can surely read him like an open book.

Not that it seems to bother him. He mirrors the happy flick of G’raha’s ears, his grin broadening as G’raha struggles for words.

“I, ah-- I can’t say I didn’t feel your absence, but I know it is hardly my place to monopolize your time, so you need not concern yourself--”

Vilmar waves him off. “No more of that. I’m here for the pleasure of your company, and perhaps the excuse to indulge in sweets. Come, sit, have some pudding.”

It’s clear that Vilmar isn’t going to accept any further deflections; he’s already finding an ideal spot on the floor of the Ocular to sit. He pats the floor next to him once he’s settled and, after a moment’s hesitation, G’raha joins him.

“I told Feo Ul about the last time we ate in here and they have strictly forbidden me from calling this sort of thing a picnic,” Vilmar says with a laugh, taking the cover off the bowl. “Apparently eating on the floor of your workplace is ‘depressing’ and ‘not at all whimsical’.”

“They may have a point,” G’raha says. “Although this is certainly the closest to a picnic I’ve had in a long while.”

Vilmar produces spoons from somewhere in his bag and hands one over. “If you can spare the time away from research, I’d be glad to bring you on one.”

G’raha’s ears twitch again, because that sounds more lovely than he’d like to admit. He hastens to distract himself with a bite of pudding. The rich sweetness of it works to pull his mind away from the itch of longing-- he can feel melancholy about his affections when their object isn’t sitting beside him.

“This is delicious,” G’raha says. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with the fruit it's made with, is it something new from the Sweetsieve? I hadn’t heard about any new cultivars.”

“Oh, it’s persimmon! I got the ingredients on my last trip to Doma.”

G’raha freezes with his second spoonful in his mouth. He has the good sense to swallow before he talks, but it’s a near thing. “You brought the ingredients all the way from the Source?”

He doesn’t keep the awe out of his voice, barely makes an effort. Vilmar’s tail flicks happily where it rests between them.

“It’s a favorite of mine and I wanted to make it for you.”

“You _made_ this?”

Vilmar laughs and nods. “I know familiarity with the culinary arts isn’t commonplace amongst adventurers, but food’s the traditional courting gift where I grew up, so I was pretty diligent about learning it as a younger man.”

The pull of longing is back, but G’raha resolutely ignores it. “I think it’s quite impressive-- I’ve never been much of a chef.”

“Your sandwiches served their purpose perfectly,” Vilmar says, smiling. “I actually thought it was a courting gift at first.”

G’raha nearly inhales his next bite of pudding. “You-- _what_?”

Vilmar chuckles and his expression shifts to something almost sheepish. “Leaving a potential lover food is pretty much _the_ way to start a relationship for Keepers. I’d heard a purr in your voice a few times and I hadn’t seen your eyes, so I thought you might be a Keeper too and you were making a move. Figured out I was wrong pretty quick when I tried to take you up on it and you caught none of my cues.”

G’raha stares at him. His mind has just gone entirely blank.

_When I tried to take you up on it._

He frantically searches his memories of that morning. Vilmar had thanked him for his gift, placed a hand on his arm. What had he _said_? G’raha had been so distracted by the touch, he doesn’t remember the specific words. Vilmar’s reaction had seemed odd, too grateful, too happy to have received such a simple gift--

“It’s okay to laugh, I know I was being ridiculous,” Vilmar says lightly, a hint of embarrassment in the way he holds his ears. G’raha, on the other hand, feels like someone’s lit a fire under his skin.

“Gods, if I’d realized-- I was still hiding my identity, I would have had to turn you down.”

Vilmar gives G’raha a confused frown. “It’s okay, it’s not that easy to hurt my feelings. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“No, no, that isn’t what I meant. I don’t know how I’d have managed it. I could have ruined the whole plan just because I wanted...”

Vilmar’s ears, lowered in puzzlement, suddenly perk back up. “Wait. Are you saying you would have said yes, if you’d realized what I was doing?”

G’raha holds his spoon tightly, like an unhelpful lifeline. “I understand if, after everything I’ve done, you are no longer interested--”

Vilmar startles him into silence by shoving the bowl of pudding away-- it scrapes loudly against the floor of the Ocular. He closes the space between them and puts his hands on G’raha’s shoulders. He’s smiling, his ears flicking excitedly. “Hells, G’raha, I’m _more_ interested than I was then.”

“Really?” he blurts out, because it feels impossible, to be not only forgiven for his missteps but desired more in their aftermath.

“Come here and I’ll prove it,” Vilmar says, his voice going playful.

It’s too much. G’raha makes an agonized noise and leans in-- Vilmar meets him halfway, the hands on his shoulders moving to cradle his face. The leather of his gloves is soft and warm, and G’raha is purring before Vilmar can even kiss him.

The kiss, though, is something he can lose himself in entirely.

Vilmar’s lips are chapped. He smells like the kitchens, tastes like the pudding he’d made for them to share. He purrs louder than G’raha does, strokes his face with his thumbs.

By the time Vilmar moves his kisses to his jaw, G’raha is _melting_. He hasn’t done this since before he was sealed in the tower and he’d forgotten how good it feels; he’s too old for how quickly he’s grown hard and wanting under his robes. The way Vilmar has shifted them backwards so he’s halfway on top of G’raha doesn’t help; his weight is welcome and thrilling.

Vilmar nips gently at his throat and G’raha whines, the feeling going right to his cock. Embarrassing, how greedy he is for this, how young he feels. All his caution, his experience, nothing in the face of what he actually _wants_.

Vilmar moves again, nudging him to lay on his back. G’raha instinctively parts his legs as he lays back, bracketing Vilmar’s hips. His arms go around Vilmar’s neck, and Vilmar rewards his initiative with a long, indulgent kiss.

The new position makes more intimate contact inevitable, but G’raha still gasps into Vilmar’s mouth when he grinds down, putting pressure right where he’s aching for it. His hips buck of their own accord, and he buries his face in Vilmar’s shoulder, overwhelmed by how _good_ it feels. Vilmar reaches between them and gives G’raha’s clothed cock a welcome squeeze, kissing his face when G’raha answers him with a whimper.

Gods, it has been far, far too long.

“We probably don’t want to strip down in here,” Vilmar says, his voice regretful and scratchy with the underlying purr.

“You-- I suppose you have a point, that’s-- that’s-- _oh_ , please, I--”

Something frantic thrashes in his chest; he wants this so badly and he’s suddenly terrified that the moment they untangle themselves it will all evaporate into the ambient aether.

Vilmar gives him a considering look, and then shifts his balance, leaning on his left arm so he can raise his right hand to his mouth and bite the tip of one of his gloved fingers. He pulls, taking the glove off with his teeth. G’raha is too distracted watching him do it to wonder at the purpose behind it.

Vilmar makes it obvious quickly enough-- he reaches down to push G’raha’s robe up until he can get his hand under it. “This okay?”

G’raha can feel Vilmar’s sword calluses against the bare skin of his thigh, and that’s so arousing he goes a little bit lightheaded.

“More than okay,” he says, breathless.

Vilmar doesn’t make him wait once he has the go ahead, pulling his hand back just long enough to spit into it. G’raha’s robes bunch up as Vilmar leans forward and tugs his smallclothes out of the way, wrapping his hand around G’raha’s cock. The pleasure of it rushes through his stomach; his breath catches and he digs his nails into the leather protecting Vilmar’s shoulders.

Vilmar kisses his neck, purring, and starts stroking him. At first, the rhythm is so slow, so gentle that G’raha feels like he’s going to shake out of his skin. Sweat prickles at his temples, impatience twists eagerly in his gut.

“Harder,” he begs when he can stand it no longer. “Gods, please.”

“Shh, hey, I’ve got you, however you want it,” Vilmar soothes, and tightens his grip, tempo suddenly quick and _perfect_. G’raha startles himself with the rattling moan that comes up from his chest.

“Want to really feel it, huh?” Vilmar says, his voice rough but tempered with blatant fondness. “So impatient, Raha.”

He’s teasing, but the familiar form of his name hits G’raha somewhere primal. He buries his face into Vilmar’s neck and makes a wounded sound. Vilmar nuzzles him, too affectionate for G’raha to slip into embarrassment.

“Almost there?” Vilmar asks, when G’raha’s whimpering picks up instead of trailing off. G’raha, unable to find words, nods. Vilmar hums his approval and speeds up his strokes, shifting his focus towards the head of G’raha’s cock.

The pleasure starts to crest, his body going tight in the best way, and Vilmar tips forward, closer to his ears, and purrs, deep and aroused--

“ _Raha_.”

G’raha arches with a sharp inhale, coming so hard that his vision fades around the edges. Vilmar works him through it, drawing out the orgasm as far as he can before overstimulation sets in.

He goes limp on the floor the moment Vilmar takes his hand away, aftershocks tingling through his gut and legs trembling. He can’t remember the last time he felt this good.

Vilmar gives him a moment to catch his breath, his still-gloved hand stroking G’raha’s hair. When G’raha finally opens his eyes to look at him, he’s immediately taken in by the adoring look on Vilmar’s face. He smiles back, happiness bubbling up in his chest until he almost wants to laugh. Wouldn’t that be a sight, the Exarch debauched and giggling on the floor of the Ocular, the Warrior of Darkness half on top of him and grinning.

“So, you really like it when I say your name, huh? I’ll have to remember that,” Vilmar says, kissing his jaw. G’raha can feel him hard and rubbing idly against his hip, but Vilmar lacks the frantic urgency that had overtaken G’raha. He seems totally at home in the moment.

“It has been quite some time since last anyone said it in such an intimate fashion,” he says, a little bit embarrassed now that he’s starting to calm down.

“What, did your previous lovers just call you ‘Exarch’?” Vilmar says with a laugh.

“I haven’t taken a lover since I’ve gone by the title,” G’raha admits, not expecting the way it makes Vilmar go still.

“Are you-- Are you saying you haven’t had sex in _a century?_ ”

It sounds so much worse spoken aloud. G’raha winces. “Celibacy seemed the safest choice, given that I was concealing my identity.”

“Hells,” Vilmar swears, sitting up. “Hells, Raha, you should have told me, you went without for a hundred gods forsaken years and you let me feel you up on the _floor_? You deserve a bed, if nothing else!”

He sounds genuinely distraught, so G’raha rushes to reassure him, sitting up as he does so. “You have given me nothing to complain about, that was… that was _perfect_.”

“It very much was not! Hold on, I have a handkerchief, let me set you to rights and we can go back to my inn room, I’ll fuck you proper, I promise.”

All thoughts of protest flee G’raha’s head instantly.

“Oh. Oh, if-- if that’s what you want, I would-- yes, please.”

Vilmar, who is struggling to fish his handkerchief out of his bag one-handed, turns to give him a solemn nod. It’s an endearingly comical image, a man disheveled from his lover’s roaming hands and still hard in his trousers, behaving like a knight being given a quest of great importance.

G’raha can’t help but smile. Immediately, Vilmar smiles back, ears twitching happily. He catches himself quickly, shaking his head and frowning; his ears stay cheerfully perked, so it lacks any weight. 

“Hey, no, you’re forbidden from being happy with me until I’ve done this right.”

G’raha gives in to the laughter that’s been building in his chest. “I’m afraid I’ll be forced to disappoint you, then. You ask the impossible.”

“If you insist,” Vilmar gives a theatrical sigh and leans over to kiss him. “I suppose after all the impossible things you’ve done, it would be rude to ask another of you.”

He hands over the handkerchief, which G’raha takes gratefully. He’s going to need a change of smallclothes, but some cleanup is doable. “Thank you.”

“Shall I bring the pudding?” Vilmar asks, gathering the bowl up from the floor. It spilled a bit earlier, but it looks otherwise fine. “You’ll need the energy.”

G’raha laughs as he stands up.

“Alright. Bring the pudding.”

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is [xenosaurus](https://xenosaurus.tumblr.com) if you want to come yell about miqo'te lore and/or trade screenshots of our chocobos like old ladies with pictures of their grandchildren


End file.
